by A. A. Dhand
Joyti stroked Aaron’s face, then looked at Ranjit.
‘Choose,’ she said.
SIXTY-EIGHT
The explosion in the sewage tunnel had put a stop to special forces’ plans to enter the mosque. No one had been injured. The tunnel had collapsed a few hundred yards in front of them. It had been a measured device, just enough force to block the route but not enough to have attracted attention or caused damage above ground. It had proved one thing. The Patriots were way ahead in this game. They’d clearly had a long time to plan this and knew every move the security services would be making.
Frost was back in the command room, getting updates on the ten-thousand-strong Muslim crowd heading for Forster Square retail park. As they’d promised, the mosques had begun to empty, everyone heading for one enormous stand of solidarity in Bradford with the world’s media watching. Frost had no choice but to allow the peaceful demonstration to take place.
Limited CCTV had now been restored so he had real-time feeds coming in, showing a slow procession of Islamic worshippers holding candles, happy to take up position in the retail park the police had cleared for them.
Community leaders had tried to dissuade them from marching but to no avail.
Frost wondered how hard they’d really tried. He had spoken at length with several imams, advising them that this demonstration would use police resources desperately needed elsewhere, but they knew they had extra men in from all over Yorkshire. No, this was going to happen.
He’d left Counter-Terrorism ACC Peter Weetwood and Commander Allen speaking with COBRA downstairs. They had one final tactical option left to them.
A full-out assault on the mosque.
If the clock ran down too far and the powers-that-be made the call, they would storm the building. It was risky. There were many unknowns to factor in, not least the as yet unidentified sleeper cell inside the mosque. The easiest thing was to open the doors and allow the worshippers to run. That seldom went well. With only six hours remaining and none of the leaders of Almukhtaroon in custody, Frost and other senior members of this operation, Tariq Islam included, were forced to plan for an interception that might only have a 50/50 chance at success.
Frost was hoping for one thing.
That Saima Virdee came through for him.
SIXTY-NINE
Harry came to, hands cuffed behind him, feet tied and what felt like masking tape across his mouth. The skin on his chest burned where Isaac had Tasered him and his brain was foggy. The throb in his hand from where the nurse had bitten him was no longer the most painful injury he had.
The living room was empty, just a small lamp in the corner throwing shadows across the floor.
A clock on the wall said 01.00.
He’d been out cold for half an hour.
Isaac had double-crossed him. He must have been planning this all along.
And Abu-Nazir was his father?
Harry had been completely blind-sided. Or had his mind been so preoccupied by Saima, Aaron and the scale of everything unravelling in Bradford that he had simply missed all the signs?
Where the fuck were they all now? If they’d left, this was over. The thought spurred him to life and he tried to move, only to find his hands cuffed to the radiator.
What about Amelia Rose – where was she?
The fog lifted from Harry’s head. And what the hell had Far Right activist Tyler Sudworth been doing here with Islamic extremists? He tried to focus.
The room was bland. Two shitty grey couches, a withered armchair and a small dining table with only two chairs. The TV was an old box unit, cased in a wooden frame. No pictures on the walls. Nothing personal.
This wasn’t a home, this was a meeting point.
For what, an extremist reunion? In fucking Saville Tower?
Harry dropped his chin on to his chest, waiting for an idea.
At home, he often sat on the floor, as he was now, talking to his son at eye-level. Usually it was Aaron telling Harry off for not playing right.
Harry closed his eyes, but he couldn’t think of his son. It was too hard.
Of course, his brain went straight to his wife. Saima was resilient, not the type to be cowering in the corner crying or praying for salvation. He smiled. It was one of the reasons he’d married her. She possessed a fierce type of determination – never the victim, always the fighter. God, he hoped she was all right.
The handcuffs seemed to have been threaded behind a metal pipe creeping out of the floor, connecting the radiator. There was about a foot of space, giving him a little slack. Harry wrapped his hands around the pipe and pulled at it.
Solid.
He leaned forward, using his weight.
No give at all.
He opened his eyes and looked for what was in reach but there was nothing. Just a loose socket. Electricity. He wasn’t fucking around with that.
He hated the sensation of helplessness, blood pressure rising, sweat breaking across his body. Panic wasn’t his thing. Harry moved his hands away from the pipe, to the radiator itself, just enough slack to get his hands behind it.
He leaned forwards and pulled.
Movement.
Harry tasted the bitter, acidic glue from the masking tape, grimaced and pulled harder. He gritted his teeth, adjusted his body and pulled again, leaning into the radiator, groaning. The handcuffs dug painfully into his skin, metal cutting sharply. Harry applied as much force as he could for as long as he could, feeling the radiator give a little before he ran out of steam.
Panting, he leaned back against the wall, light-headed. Then he adjusted his position, scrambling on to his knees and moving his feet behind him so they were touching the wall.
He pulled at the side of the radiator with everything he had, feet pushing off the wall. The cuffs screamed at his skin. His thoughts were of home: Aaron and Saima – their faces, their smiles, the feeling of Saima lying next to him.
A burst of energy, like an electrical current, charged through his muscles and Harry screamed into the masking tape. His body collapsed forwards. He turned and saw the radiator had come off its brackets. But there was a robust metal bolt pinning the radiator to the pipe. There was no way the cuffs were going to slide away past it. All he had done was create a mess.
His thoughts were disturbed by the sound of the front door closing.
Abu-Nazir entered the room. ‘Having fun, I see.’ He squatted in front of Harry and tore the tape from Harry’s mouth.
Harry spat at him. Abu-Nazir simply wiped it from his face before slapping Harry, much like his father might have done. ‘That was rude,’ he said. Abu-Nazir retreated two paces.
‘They’ll be coming for me,’ said Harry. ‘The world and his dog.’
Abu-Nazir laughed. ‘Such hollow threats. Isaac told me everything. You don’t know if you’re a cop or a renegade. I’ll tell you what you are: you’re a sacrifice to try and save Bradford.’
He brought a chair over to Harry, placed it in front of him and sat down, this time remaining out of spitting distance.
‘You came here to take me in so that, if it came down to it, you could take my life to save all the people in that mosque – including your wife, I hear.’
Harry stared at him, surprised.
‘The British government does not negotiate with terrorists but then they also cannot allow a thousand people to die while the four of us go free.’ Nazir laughed. ‘Got to love the laws in this country. If I walked into a police station right now, I’d be the safest person in the world. Make sure enough people see me, put it out there on social media and just … wait. What’s your gut saying? I’d be safe or traded in?’
Harry didn’t answer. The government wouldn’t condemn four men to death, not even if it meant saving a thousand. Tariq Islam had been right – even Abu-Nazir knew it.
‘I reckon an angry ethnic mob would tear the police station apart until they got us. That might be interesting.’
‘What about Tyler Sudworth?’ said Ha
rry.
Nazir’s face changed, not angry, just different. ‘It was unfortunate you had to see that.’
‘Not like you were hiding him. You knew we were coming.’
‘I knew Isaac was.’
‘Isaac knows about Tyler?’
‘Of course. He’s my son – he knows everything.’
Harry was confused. It must have been clear on his face.
‘You still don’t get it, do you, Harry?’
‘Why don’t you explain it to me?’ Harry felt anger rising inside his chest. He pulled on the handcuffs again but in vain. ‘How does the most hated religious preacher in the north get a flat in Saville Tower?’
Abu-Nazir sniggered. ‘People are such fools.’
Something sparked inside of Harry, a thought so ludicrous he dismissed it before it gained traction.
‘Have you read the Bible?’ said Abu-Nazir.
‘What?’
‘Let’s see how clever you really are, Detective Virdee. Tenacious, no doubt, but smart? I’m not so sure. So, to my question: have you read it?’
‘No.’
‘Heard of the devil?’
‘Of course.’
‘Could he exist if God didn’t?’
Of all the conversations Harry had envisaged, this had not been one of them.
‘Simple enough question, Harry. Is the existence of the devil based on the assumption of a God?’
‘What?’
Abu-Nazir sniggered. ‘You really are just as thick as everyone else.’
Harry glared at Abu-Nazir, confused.
‘Yin and Yang. Good and bad. Two sides of the same coin or opposing forces? I guess it depends on where you stand.’
Harry frowned.
‘The Far Right have a clear mandate in this country, one which exists because of Islamic fundamentalism. Without them, we would have little purpose. Little way of ensuring our message held meaning.’
Couldn’t be. ‘Get the fuck out,’ said Harry. ‘You’re bluffing.’
‘People so easily believe that a man with a beard and a basic grasp of Arabic who rants and raves about infidels and martyrdom could be a fundamentalist. The fact I’m white makes people take notice and want to follow me, but more importantly it keeps the Far Right strong because one of their own has crossed over to the dark side. Quite above all that, it brings in more money than you could ever imagine.’
Harry swallowed hard. ‘You’re telling me, that you, Abu-Nazir, leader of the Almukhtaroon Islamic fundamentalist group, are in fact a member of the Far Right?’
‘Is it so hard to believe?’
‘You had a child with an Asian woman.’
‘The bitch was hot and I was young and stupid. When I found out she was knocked up I tried to make it work. But her family? Shit, those people are from the dark ages. Opened my eyes. Put me on the right path.’
‘You are some piece of work, aren’t you? And the boy? Your son?’
Abu-Nazir smiled. ‘Blood is thicker than water.’
SEVENTY
The lights in the grand hall had been turned off, leaving only dim lamps around the perimeter. Most people were lying down but many were still awake, sitting in small huddles, talking.
Hardly any mobile phone screens lit the darkness. Saima assumed most people’s batteries were dead.
Maria was close by her side. They’d been escorted from the kitchen by two committee members sweeping the building. They hadn’t noticed anything unusual.
As they passed the worshippers looking for a small, private area to rest, Saima heard the whispers from a group of men crowded around a mobile phone. The remaining hundred and four mosques in Bradford had emptied at midnight, their congregations heading for Forster Square, a few hundred metres from the Mehraj mosque. It would be one of the largest peaceful protests ever organized by the Muslim community in England, as many as ten thousand. As Hashim himself had told Saima in his office, this was an opportunity on a global scale to show how united the Muslim community within Bradford were, and furthermore the images of thousands of Muslims in candlelit silence would be a far more powerful image to relay across the world than a mosque surrounded by military. That needed to be the defining image of this siege – not fear and isolation but hope.
Saima followed Maria to a small empty space on the floor adjacent to the female washrooms.
‘You should try and get some sleep,’ said Maria.
‘You’re kidding, aren’t you?’
‘Hardly. You look exhausted.’
‘Keeping secrets is exhausting.’
Maria ignored the jibe and sat down, her back against the wall.
Saima took a place next to her.
‘Don’t you have a soul? Don’t you fear God?’ Saima whispered, staring into the crowd.
‘I’m not here to have a theological debate with you. Either go to sleep or sit in silence.’
‘Or what? You’ll detonate the device?’
Maria didn’t reply.
Saima pointed to a nearby group of four elderly women. ‘I see them in Bradford Royal every week – the cancer department. They are not suffering, they come to give comfort to those who are. Make them tea, talk to them while they undergo chemotherapy.’
Again, nothing from Maria.
‘And those,’ said Saima, pointing to another group. ‘They teach young women in Bradford how to sew and mend garments.’
Maria remained quiet and perfectly still, as if she were in a trance, eyes open, breathing calm. Saima thought she looked like someone about to enter a state of deep meditation.
‘There are so many good people in this room. They don’t deserve what you are threatening to do to them.’
They sat in silence for a while until Imam Hashim made his way over to them. Maria grasped Saima’s arm, squeezing it tightly.
‘Saima, I wonder if you might do me a favour?’ he said, kneeling by her side.
‘Of course,’ she said, trying to shift her position but unable to because of Maria’s grip.
‘A lady needs an insulin shot. She missed her dose earlier. Could you help? She’s a little confused.’
Maria tightened her hold on her arm.
‘Of course,’ said Saima. She looked at Maria and smiled. ‘It would be weird if a nurse didn’t help someone in need.’
She delivered the statement with enough bite that Maria relaxed her grip. ‘I’ll come with you, Saima. I can’t get comfortable here.’
Saima stood up, thinking fast.
How could she tell Hashim about Maria?
The two women followed him to his office. Maria had hold of Saima’s arm again. Leaning closer as they approached the door, she hissed, ‘Be smart.’
Inside the office, an elderly woman was sitting on a couch, holding an insulin pen. Saima spoke to her in Urdu.
Was this her chance?
Surely Maria wouldn’t understand the language?
She glanced at Maria. She had the greatest poker-face Saima had ever seen.
Saima took the insulin pen from the woman and asked what dose she took. The old dear said she didn’t know, her son always took care of it for her.
The pen contained a long-acting insulin. Saima dialled it down to a low dose and administered it. She could always give her more if needed. She sat beside her and told Maria she had to wait a few minutes to ensure the woman was all right, something she’d made up to buy time.
‘I hear the gathering of the other mosques is under way,’ said Saima to Hashim.
He nodded. ‘Roughly ten thousand worshippers holding candles in Forster Square. Faith will see us through this dark night.’
Saima nodded, racking her brains for an idea.
‘Will you get some sleep?’ she asked him, with emphasis on the word ‘sleep’. It was clumsy but all she could think of.
Maria made her way towards Saima.
‘This looks pretty comfortable,’ she said, tapping the back of the couch. ‘Why don’t you sleep here for a while? You must be exhau
sted,’ she said pleasantly to Hashim.
He shook his head. ‘I’m responsible here. I fear when the clock enters the final two hours, things may well become unstable.’
The elderly woman beside Saima thanked her, kissed her cheek like her mother would have done and stood up to leave. Hashim escorted her to the door, keeping it open for the other women to follow. As they left, Hashim turned to Saima and said, ‘Do we need to talk about anything?’
Maria arrived by Saima’s side, within earshot of a reply. Saima sighed and said, ‘No. Nothing to discuss.’
She went to leave the room, paused and had a last shot at trying to relay Maria was the sleeper by turning to Hashim and speaking in Urdu. ‘Do you think the white people of this city will be with us tonight or against us?’
It was the most measured thing she could think of in the circumstances.
Maria, though, beat Hashim to a response, taking Saima gently by the arm and replying in perfect Urdu, ‘This white woman is with you and that, my friend, is all that counts.’
SEVENTY-ONE
After everything that had happened, it all came down to money.
Harry thought of the documentary he had watched of Tyler Sudworth and Abu-Nazir. They’d seemed friendly, joking about their positions – one the saviour of the Islamic world, the other of the Western world.
Like yin and yang, they were opposites. One could not exist without the other. Abu-Nazir had jump-started Tyler Sudworth’s political career. And without Tyler, Abu-Nazir would not have half the media focus.
The bastards had played the system perfectly and become wealthy in the process. Membership fees for Almukhtaroon, ‘donations’ from sympathizers around the world. As for Tyler, he was paid huge fees for public-speaking engagements highlighting the dangers of, among others, Almukhtaroon.
Saville Tower was a place Tyler was known to frequent, home to a lawless brotherhood who would never speak to the police or media. Tyler Sudworth’s very own kingdom.